


Heat of the Moment

by Singerdiva01



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/F, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singerdiva01/pseuds/Singerdiva01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heat wave on New Caprica precipitates a series of events that blur the lines between dreams and reality and the relationship between Tory and Laura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat of the Moment

“Frakking idiot, ordering _me_ to cancel school. It’s probably cooler here than in their tents. At least we have a fan.”

Tory gave the ancient contraption a skeptical look. It was a fan, said so right there on the logo, or at least it did until the ‘a’ wore off. But it had only one speed -- _slooooooooow_ \-- and made such a racket they could only turn it on when one of them wasn’t teaching.

She made some sort of noise she hoped sounded like agreement and directed her eyes back to Myra Johansen’s spelling test. Engaging the former president in any sort of rational conversation about the frakweasel was as difficult as ‘i before e except after c’ was for the third grader. She drew a red line through _freind_ and scribbled the correction above it. 

“Heat stroke, my ass. He’s gonna have a field full of unconscious children for the pleasure of ordering me around. At least I could keep them here and make sure everyone was alright.”

Tory crossed out the second ‘e’ in _greef_ , marked Myra’s C+ on top, and reached for the next sheet on the pile. 

“And Lords of Kobol, why does it have to be so frakking hot on this Gods’ forsaken mudball?”

The rustle of fabric being roughly handled, accompanied by her boss’ annoyed hum-snort, made her look up. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Laura Roslin was still standing there beside her desk, sans her blouse, wearing the sheerest camisole she’d ever seen and her shortest skirt. 

If it was a mirage, it was for damn sure a better sight than a watering hole. 

Laura chuckled, a low, sonorous sound that seemed to crackle across the heavy air.

“No need for modesty when there’s no one here but us.” Roslin paused and tilted her head. Belatedly Tory realized she was waiting for her to do something. When she nodded, it felt like her head had to fight through some sort of goo to move. 

She blamed the former president’s collar bones. No, not right, those were on the front. Those were damn distracting too but she’d never seen these delicate arches in the president’s back. 

She wondered if that little biology know it all, Jennie something, could tell her what they were called. Laura would need to arch up on her heels and pull her hair into a bun again so she could show the kid exactly what she was talking about. 

“Tory, honey, we need to get this off.”

At the sound of her name, the younger woman realized Roslin had materialized by her side and was stripping her green dress shirt down her shoulders. Tory’s skin burned under the touch of her cool fingers and, incongruously, she shivered. 

She’d never believed Laura Roslin was a prophet. She’d spent a long time trying to deny her attraction to the woman. Suddenly both thoughts merged, blurred, and then cleared. She was, she’d read her mind, and all that pretending was never necessary. 

“Laura?”

She wondered, vaguely, why her voice sounded so strange. Like she was standing in a cave. Maybe the one on Kobol Billy told her about. If Laura could transport them there, why hadn’t she done it right after losing the election?

“I’m here, honey. Let me take care of you.”

Gods, yes. Finally. She felt the heat gathering between her legs, shooting up her abdomen and into her chest. She never felt Laura touch her sex but her wide emerald eyes were the last thing she saw before her body started bucking. 

It was such a foreign sensation, like no climax she’d ever had before. Lightning bolts shot through every nerve ending but they didn’t hurt, only made her limbs jerk without leave. It was ecstasy, pleasure to the point of pain, and just when she knew she could take no more, it started over. 

As her eyes rolled back into her head, she wondered how many mortals had ever been jerked off by a Goddess’ mere thoughts. Of those, how many survived?

*********

She woke to the feel of a cool cloth gliding across her forehead. Her arm flinched involuntarily but its’ shakiness sent the memories flooding back in a rush. She tried to open her eyes and saw something resembling a tent ceiling above her before her lids became too heavy to support.

Alright. One survivor, at least. Was there a whiteboard in Olympus for that?

“Tory? Open your eyes all the way, honey. Please, try to open your eyes for me.”

She was momentarily awed by the fear coursing through Laura Roslin’s familiar voice. Was she really the first? Or had Pythia’s worldly prophet accidentally killed the others before her?

“Wake up and look at me right this minute, Ms. Foster. That’s an order!”

Whatever else Roslin was, whatever else had happened, Tory knew better than to disobey Madame President when she used that tone. Her eyes flew open and she tried instinctively to sit up. Firm hands met her shoulders and she found herself being guided gently back down to what she only then realized was a pillow. 

“No, no, stay still. Relax, you’re going to be fine.” Tory blinked until Roslin came into focus above her. She was backlit by harsh fluorescent light that confirmed her suspicion they were in the medical tent. When she leaned down to brush a lock of hair from her forehead, Tory could see the former president looked haggard, the lines around her eyes far deeper than usual. 

“Gods, you scared me half to death,” Laura said breathily. She sank down into a chair by the bed and fixed Tory with a mock stern glare. “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?”

Tory opened her mouth then closed it again. She’d been chastised for quite a few things that weren’t her fault during her career but being reamed out for non-consensual telepathic sex was on a whole new plane. Quite literally. 

Oh, it was wonderful and she’d definitely wanted it -- wanted it again and often, as a matter of fact -- but she couldn’t figure out for the life of her why…

“Hey, are you ok?” Roslin was leaning over her, looking worried again. She must have drifted off there for a moment. “Cottle said you might not remember.”

Tory want to laugh at the absurdity. If she had a hundred lifetimes, she’d never forget the sight of Laura’s long legs in that skirt, the curve of her neck as she arched up on her toes. Or the way her fingers felt on her skin just before her body exploded into the best orgasm of her whole life. 

Vaguely, she wondered if the former president was embarrassed by the whole thing or, alarmingly, if the Prophet expected to kill her and failed. 

That would suck. 

“Tory? Did you hear what I said?” 

The younger woman flinched when cool fingers grazed across her hand. She shook her head, expecting another rebuke or maybe more lightning bolts. Those would probably hurt this time. 

“You fainted. At the school, while we were grading,” Laura explained in that patient tone that indicated she was repeating herself. She wound her fingers through Tory’s and clenched them tightly. “And then you had a seizure, right there in my arms. Cottle said had you been alone…Gods, twenty-four cases of heat stroke in one day. Stupid frakking...”

Tory let Roslin’s voice fade into the background. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. The most erotic, amazing experience of her entire life had been a frakking heat induced hallucination? She felt stupid, incredibly stupid, and yet it seemed so real. Maybe...

“Gods, if anything ever happened to you…” Laura’s teary voice snapped her back to reality. She was looking down at her with a loving expression Tory’d only ever seen directed at Billy. The way _that_ made her feel was overwhelming, the whole damn everything was, and suddenly she felt like she couldn’t hold her eyes open. 

“You just rest now. I’m here, honey. Let me take care of you.” She heard Roslin shift in her chair but noticed their fingers were still laced together. 

Tory let her lids close, a smile ghosting across her face. 

Maybe it really was a hallucination. Maybe not. Either way, she’d be getting off to the memory of Pythia’s prophet frakking her senseless with only her mind for the rest of her life. 

And Laura Roslin looking at her that way, calling her ‘honey’? If she had them, that would keep her going for a hundred lifetimes.


End file.
